


His Girl On A Friday

by waywardrose



Category: Saturday Night Live
Genre: Corporate Espionage, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrose/pseuds/waywardrose
Summary: You’ve been sent by your father, Henry Pickens, to spy on his rival: Abraham H. Parnassus





	His Girl On A Friday

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to thecurlycaptain on Tumblr for writing [a couple](http://thecurlycaptain.tumblr.com/post/178687425329/im-hornty-for-abe-too-guys-especially-after) of [passages](http://thecurlycaptain.tumblr.com/post/178750513674/just-some-stuff-i-was-assulting-kylo-renne-with) with young Parnassus and his wife which inspired me!

  * You’ve been sent by your father, Henry Pickens, to spy on his rival: Abraham H. Parnassus
  * You didn’t want to do it, but your father had seen the job listing from Mr. Parnassus’ company for a secretary and sent you under the false name of _Miss Mary Friedberg_
  * Somehow, you got the job and it’s now Friday evening, and everyone in the office has been sent home for the weekend
  * All except you and Mr. Parnassus
  * While he didn’t demand you work whenever he does, because he almost works around the clock, he does expect you to stay a little later than everyone else
  * You’re typing up the last of his professional correspondence, and your back is tired from sitting in your hard-back desk chair for hours
  * Behind you is his open office door, and you can hear him muttering to himself
  * Mr. Parnassus bellows your name, even though you’re less than fifteen feet from him
  * Startled, you grab your steno pad and pencil and turn to his office
  * You see he’s smiling, so smug, and you can feel your heart in your throat as you smooth down the skirt of your professional day-dress
  * His unfashionably-long, dark hair has striking gray streaks at the temple, and his suits always fit him perfectly
  * Even smug, his face is appealing--remarkable, stately--and _so handsome_
  * Yet his brown eyes flash with barely contained fire; his lack of temper is notorious
  * It was refreshing from the cowed suitors your parents presented
  * But if your father knew you harbored such a _fascination_ with Mr. Parnassus, he’d command you right home
  * “Get in here, my girl. We haven’t got all night.”
  * You clear your throat and march in, head held high and ready to transcribe
  * As you’re about to sit in one of the guest chairs, he corrects you and orders you to come around the desk
  * He pats the empty corner of his desk, indicating you should sit to his right
  * But that’s _unprofessional_ , your knee would almost touch his arm--it would be too distracting, even for you
  * You’d rather lean a hip against the edge of the desk and concentrate your job
  * Mr. Parnassus accepts your decision to stand and begins: “To H.R. Pickens…”
  * You glance over at Mr. Parnassus to see him watching you
  * As he talks, he leans closer, and you can smell his light cologne, but you dutifully keep your eyes on your shorthand
  * The more you write, the more you realize he’s admonishing your father for sending one of his own to keep an eye on Mr. Parnassus’ business
  * You try not to let it show that you’re completely spooked, because he can’t know about you
  * Can he?
  * “I will sow the Pickens’ field with my festering seed! Your precious, beautiful daughter will be mine!”
  * You gasp, utterly shocked, and tilt away from Mr. Parnassus, the steno pad and pencil still in your numb hands
  * Mr. Parnassus is looking up at you, his eyes smoldering, cheeks flushed with passionate indignation
  * His lips are shiny with saliva
  * Oh, Lord, _he knows_ \--maybe you can play it off, act like you aren’t a Pickens
  * “Mr. Parnassus, sir, I don’t think this is an appropriate letter to send to Mr. Pickens.”
  * “Is it not true, Miss Pickens?”
  * “I’m not– I don’t know what you mean.”
  * “Do you know what gave you away?”
  * “Sir, I don’t understa--”
  * He cuts you off: “Don’t feign ignorance with me!” His big hand slaps down on his cluttered desk, and you take a shuddering breath
  * “It was your stockings, Miss Pickens.” He remains seated, but rolls right beside you
  * His arm comes around your knees, and his hand is under your skirt
  * He gently cups the back of one of your knees, his thumb stroking your skin through the expensive stockings
  * “Too fine for a secretary, don’t you think?” He hums in thought. “Did your mother buy these for you?”
  * You should leave now, quit the job, go back home, never see Mr. Parnassus again
  * But you freeze, any protest dying in your chest, and you find yourself unable to move an inch--his touch is soothing yet thrilling
  * You want him to keep going
  * “Answer me.”
  * You confess you had picked them out from a French catalog
  * His hand slides up the back of your thigh until it reaches the top of the stocking
  * The first touch of skin-on-skin has you shivering and biting your lip, his fingers are warm
  * Said fingertips trail over the hem to the garter-belt stay at the back of your leg and plucks at it
  * The taut stay snaps against your leg, and you jump a little, your thighs clenching
  * He stands then, hand still on your leg, sliding up as he straightens to his full height to tower over you
  * You clutch the steno pad and pencil to your chest, practically quivering at being touched like this
  * His large hand now rests at the swell of your hip, the thin silk of your tap-pants style knickers offer no insulation between your body and his touch
  * “Tell me to stop and I will.”
  * You shake your head, unable to find the will to refuse him, then you realize you don’t _want_ to refuse him
  * He takes the steno pad and pencil from you and tells you to touch him
  * Your hands settle on his chest and clutch at his vest, tugging him closer
  * As he leans in, he asks, “Shall I continue?”
  * You stare at his lush mouth and nod, you’ve been kissed before, but never like this, never by someone like this: powerful, temperamental, and so handsome
  * When his lips finally, _finally_ touch yours, your knees go weak and you wrap your arms around him
  * It’s a delirious heaven to be in his arms, to be dominated--even overwhelmed--to be cared for, to be touched like you won’t break
  * He’s cradling the back of your head and probably ruining your pinned hairstyle, just like your lipstick, but you don’t care
  * His other hand’s now on your ass, cupping the round swell of it and tugging you against his firm body, and you two find a perfect rhythm of kissing and sliding together
  * You know when it becomes too much, when you know you’re approaching forbidden territory, and it seems he does too
  * He pulls back just enough to look deep into your eyes, and you notice his lips are rouged now like yours
  * The smile he gives you is hardly gentlemanly, and it warms you even further
  * He says, “Tell me not to send that letter and I won’t.”
  * You look deep into his dark, pupil-dominated eyes and whisper, “Don’t.”



**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com)


End file.
